Do Such Injustice to You
by junkoholic
Summary: Dean doesn't exactly have the monopoly on dependency. Wincest, pre-series.


A/N: Some more wincest for the soul. Title is taken, with deference, from "Helplessness Blues" by Fleet Foxes. I would absolutely love comments! Seriously, it would make my world shinier. I will dance!

(Also posted on AO3.)

* * *

Sixteen, in a forest of evergreen. His family flanking – and himself evergreen, green as a young colt, riding high on first kills. His feet twinged, pinched in too-tight boots, no room for socks, so he went sockless, surrendering his ankles to the chill. Still, he jangled and thrummed like a pitch-perfect instrument. Dean kept too close and irked him, but Dean always kept too close. Even then, he knew they would catch their death of each other.

And there it was. Even a three-hundred pound werewolf, gorged and primed, is no match for three Winchesters, boogeymen of the supernatural. But it was an unthinking creature, and charged, and Sam shot once, twice, bullets thunking deep into flesh. The wolf staggered close and Sam slammed the butt of his rifle into the creature's jaw. It went down bloody, snarling, and Sam met Dean's eyes in one hot, electric moment. I am dangerous too, he thought, and sunk silver into the wolf's heart. He felt Dean turn away. John squeezed his shoulder, roughed up his hair a bit, and turned away too.

Sam kneeled over the wolf's body, tableau of the hunter. Something caught his eye – a fang, knocked clean. It was discolored, smooth, as long as his thumb. He had it spit-shined and pocketed before Dean could get to it.

In the Impala, driving back, Sam couldn't come down. Heart rustling, blood all stirred up. He ran his fingers discreetly over the tip of the tooth, pressing down hard enough to leave an indent on his index. He thought of his and Dean's shared look just as he snuffed his prey, and fuck if that was not thrill incarnate.

Later, he was admiring the tooth before bed, turning it over and over, refracting the lamplight. John found him. As one, they looked at Dean, but he was cross-armed, fast asleep. "Sammy." And his voice was rough and sad. His eyes flicked to the tooth in Sam's hand. "Never bring the hunt back, son. You killed today. Don't get carried away."

* * *

Sam combed through the knots of that one for hours, good and sullen. His father's words disturbed him. There was something to them, like John had looked at Sam sideways and seen an animal where his soldier should have been.

The tooth, the point of contention, Sam hid in the frost-hardened soil outside the cabin. He washed his hands clean in the pump and returned to the bedroom, his breath misting in the morning chill. He kicked their dirty clothes into a corner. Dean snuffled in his sleep, and Sam woke him with a rough pull to the foot, leaping out of swatting distance.

"Fucking brat," Dean murmured affectionately. "I should trade you for rations, shithead."

"Dad's gone again," Sam said.

"Oh," Dean said, sitting up and rolling his shoulders, faux-casual. "Ah, well. Okay." He swung his legs wide, ran his hands down his thighs. "Did he say anything to you?"

"No," Sam said. "But he left a note – park our asses, wait until he gets back, keep safe, the usual."

"Makes sense," Dean said, already pulling on jeans. He scratched his scalp viciously. "Let's see what Caleb left us."

While Sam prepared some canned delicacies, Dean coaxed the wood-burning stove to life. "C'mon baby, c'mon sweetheart," he hummed low. "Get yourself nice and hot for me, honey."

"You're obscene," Sam said, chucking the can opener at his brother's bright grin. He poured peaches into two bowls, syrup and all, and topped it off with Cool-Whip.

Dean continued to show him just how obscene by scooping Cool-Whip with his fingers and sucking them into his mouth, one by one. "You're a walking cliché," Sam said, but he was thinking about the hunt again, and he felt the agitation build, squirming in his belly. His breath hit a snag and came out short, rough. Under the table, he pressed his palm against his hardening cock.

"Works on you," Dean said slowly. He searched Sam's expression. "Hey, man, you did good last night. That was a mean mother. Dude needed some aerobics classes. Full fucking diet program."

"Yeah," Sam said. He shifted, not meeting Dean's eyes.

"Just take it easy today, Sammy," Dean said. His voice was measured, easy. Careful. "Killing shouldn't be easy, right?"

* * *

It smelled like snow, and then the snow fell fast. By mid-afternoon, the earth was white. They sat crisscross by the wood-burning stove and played Egyptian Rats, and when they bored of that, polished off the Cool-Whip and managed to bully the TV into working order. While marathoning _Twilight Zone_, Dean cleaned weapons and Sam lost himself in _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. He sneaked his cold feet under Dean's ass and Dean jabbed him with the grimy cleaning brush, but he let Sam's feet stay.

Eventually, Dean was restless, so they bundled up, layers upon layers, and ventured into the whiteness. They jostled into the woods. The snowfall was clean and heavy. Dean threw up his arms in the air and twirled—fucking twirled.

"Dad's training at its finest," Sam said, grinning. Dean hurled himself into the snow like an excited pup, scrubbing snow out of his hair.

"C'mon, Sammy!" he cried, and pulled hard on his coat. Sam stumbled, and lashed out with his elbow. Dean retaliated with a kick to his stomach, and then it was war, animal chaos, their wild laughter ringing uncanny in the silence, whiteness around them like padded walls. Dean got his fist in Sam's hair and Sam twisted his arm and they were locked together, just like that.

Fitting, Sam thought, heart stirring.

They truced. Dean gave his hair one more love tug and shoved him away, laughing. He ripped a branch from a low-hanging tree and starting whacking everything in sight.

"Delinquent," Sam said, and Dean smacked the fir over his head, showering him with snow. Sam gasped at the sudden cold. He gave Dean his most practiced unamused face. "You're not proving me wrong."

"Just wanna see you smile, kiddo."

Sam kicked at the snow with his boot, upsetting the earth underneath. His brother looked so sincere that he felt pissed, suddenly, at Dean, for reasons he couldn't think about—at his father, for leaving them. "Yeah, okay."

"It's just, man, last night, you were—"

"I was what, Dean?" Sam snapped. He curled his fingers into his palm, shoved them deep in his pockets. "I did my fucking job. I killed a fucking monster. Like I've done before. Like I'll do again."

"It doesn't have to feel okay," Dean said, with infuriating gentleness. "Dude. I get it—you're not a kid. You're a badass hunter now. But it still doesn't have to be easy when you pull that trigger."

Sam rounded on him. "You and Dad and that torch you carry for my childhood fucking innocence! I can't be that kid you remember, man!"

Dean set his mouth, looked down, looked back at Sam. "Did Dad say something to you?"

"No," Sam said mulishly.

"Sammy—"

Sam scowled at him. "He was just worried about me."

"Maybe he has a point," Dean said.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Just saying, if Dad was worried about you, there's probably a good reason."

"So worried he abandoned us the next day?" shot Sam. The snow was starting to melt in his collar, rivulets sneaking down his neck and back. He shuffled back and forth on numb sockless feet. He felt frustrated almost to tears. "I just want to be treated like I'm not made out fucking _glass_."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Yeah, okay, Sammy. It's okay."

Sam felt Dean's arm around his shoulders, offering closeness, heat, and it was only then that he realized he was cold.

* * *

"Next time, we have our heart to heart closer to the equator," Dean griped, shivering out of his clothing. Sam stripped beside the stove, laying everything flat on the wood floor. Down to their boxers, they shoved their hands in their armpits, stretched their toes to the heat. Dean disappeared and returned with a stupid grin and a number of miniature whiskey bottles; a whole two handfuls, enough to down even the most practiced alcoholic.

"Did you raid an airline or something?" Sam asked.

"Got handsy at the liquor store last week," Dean replied with a wink. "They were begging for it, trust me. I've been waiting to get you alone."

He twisted the top off and slugged down a whole bottle. His eyes watered up. He passed one to Sam, who took small sips.

"My brother, the princess," Dean teased. "Very dainty, man."

"Some of us want to keep our livers," Sam said, but kept drinking. It tasted foul and burning and gorgeous. He soon finished the bottle and Dean provided another. The bone-deep chill of their romp was giving way to sweet buoyancy. He was feeling warm and gutsy. He swigged more. Dean grinned wide and stretched. Dusk was settling outside, and in the muted light, Dean just glowed. His body hosted shadows that dipped and flickered like fire. Sam was slow to look away. He felt a hitch in his navel, like someone yanking out his innards.

"Oh fuck," he gasped.

"Yeah, man," Dean murmured. "Stuff's strong. Beautiful."

Sam panicked quickly and efficiently. Reactions normal, perhaps Freudian, and he was horny always, anyway, perpetually aching. Dean was not the common denominator, just a common element; a staple of his fucked-up life.

"Dean," Sam said, and when he didn't respond right away: "Dean."

"What?"

"I took something last night. From the hunt."

Dean ran one of the empty whiskey bottles through his fingers, holding it up against the light.

"So?" he said.

"It was a tooth."

"From the wolf?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Dad saw me with it, right before bed. He told me I was getting carried away with the hunt. With killing."

"Because of the tooth?" Dean asked, blowing into the bottle. It made a sound like a small fog horn.

"I don't know." Sam put his head in his hands. "I don't know, Dean. I liked it. Maybe more than I should have. I felt like I belonged, for once."

Dean put down the bottle, looked like Sam had gutted him. "You've always belonged, Sammy. C'mon, don't say shit like that."

"You and Dad—you have this one mind about things."

"Yeah, and that gets us nowhere without you," Dean said. He looked pleading. "You shouldn't care about that, anyway. Isn't it your job to break ranks—be a little shit? It's not so great where I'm standing. Don't idolize me. Aim higher, man."

He cracked open a new bottle and offered it to Sam, who took it without thinking, because Sam has taken from Dean for his entire life, and Dean lets him, like a compulsion.

* * *

They were still buzzed when they decided to hit the hay, but when Dean's soft breaths evened out, lengthened, Sam arose and threw on jeans and a sweatshirt. The night was calm; the stars pulsed. He tromped through the snow to the spot where he had hidden the werewolf tooth, and unearthed it. He rubbed his freezing hands together.

Back in the bedroom, Sam pushed the tooth into the pocket of Dean's leather jacket. Dean would find it, grin, keep it from Dad, and he and Sam would be in cahoots—another secret shared.

And Sam was selfish like that. He could admit it. He craved the sunshine of Dean. He needed Dean, ferociously, and that was something that Dean refused to know. He didn't exactly have the monopoly on dependency.

Sam slipped into bed, facing Dean. His brother stirred and peered at him, sleep-dizzy, lips forming a lazy smile.

"No rest for the wicked, Sammy?" he teased.

Sam lunged forward and pressed their mouths together, clumsily, and felt Dean suck his breath in surprise, but he didn't draw back. He let him stay, and Sam was vaguely, distractedly grateful for Dean's stubbornness, his blindness for everything Sam. Dean would give anything to his brother. And Sam would take from him, every time.

"I'm sorry, fuck, so sorry," Sam whispered.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean murmured, eyes closed, all stale-sweet breath and musk. "You and me both, kiddo."

They pressed their foreheads together. Sam gripped Dean brutally, digging his fingers in, anchoring himself in his body. And he felt Dean reach for the base of his neck, gripping back, holding strong and steady.


End file.
